


Masters of Disguise

by j_a_is_fandom_trash



Category: Spies Are Forever - Talkfine/Tin Can Brothers
Genre: AU, Eek this is my first fic!, It's not very good but you know what, M/M, everyone starts somewhere, not more angsty but definitely up there
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-08
Updated: 2020-03-08
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:07:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23072932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/j_a_is_fandom_trash/pseuds/j_a_is_fandom_trash
Summary: AU where Owen killed Curt without realising while on a mission and whoo boy is he not happy about it.
Relationships: Owen Carvour/Agent Curt Mega
Comments: 10
Kudos: 65





	Masters of Disguise

**Author's Note:**

> Damn i actually wrote something, good on me lol.
> 
> All credit for the idea goes to laurenlopezsrightarm on Tumblr and of course Talkfine/TinCanBros. I have no creativity at all but I love this show and then I read that post and I figured I wanted to give it a shot.
> 
> Constructive criticism is always welcome but please don't be too hard on me lmao

May,1957

Leaning back on his old sofa, a fresh cigarette between his fingers, Owen couldn’t stop a small, smug smile from spreading across his face. Surprisingly, he was pretty damn pleased with himself. It had been three months since he’d been sent to Moscow, and in that time he’d managed to infiltrate the Russian Embassy, uncover a few of their plans for some sort of satellite, dispose of one or two of their mid-level operatives and make it back home with just one bullet hole (a personal record he was sure Curt would congratulate him for). Even with his perfectionist nature, he couldn’t find a way to fault himself for this one. 

Easing carefully onto his still healing leg, he limped towards his somewhat grimy window, looking out onto the busy London street below. Unsurprisingly, the weather was miserable. Rain lashed the windows, a steady drumbeat that he’d always found somewhat soothing. Tree branches danced wildly outside, beckoning him out to walk beneath the cloudy grey skies he’d missed those past few months. 

Even with this newfound self satisfaction, a grim sense of depression was still gnawing away at him, and he could no longer deny the simple fact he’d been pushing away: he really missed his boyfriend. It was so easy for him to get caught up in these missions, the adrenaline, the anxiety, the fear; but now he was alone that mild anger that always seemed to be with him started to become more noticeable. It was in the nature of the job to go months without seeing each other, but somehow his victories didn’t seem half so sweet when Curt wasn’t there. Their last mission together had been nine months before, then Curt had gone on some top secret mission that he wouldn’t even tell him about. Still, now he was back he’d hopefully be able to charm his way onto another CIA case, hopefully.

Since the disaster with the Suez Canal, his bosses had decided it was in Britain’s best interest to pull back a little from their alliance with The States and their anti-Communist campaign. He wasn’t angry at the decision, he hardly thought it was going to impact on his life at all. But, of course, it made it harder to get in contact with the CIA, especially with Owen’s level of clearance, so it took him three weeks, three fucking weeks, to find out that he’d messed up. 

The call had come directly from Cynthia, and as usual she’d gotten straight to the point.

“We need to talk.” It was a simple statement, and despite his years of training Owen was unable to detect any kind of emotion in her voice, it was unsettling, he hated not being able to read her.

“Cynthia! It’s been far too long love, what do you need? Want a qualified agent for some back up, or are you just missing my company?” His smirk was forced, and probably unnecessary, but there was something not right about this situation. 

“Curt’s dead.”  
Somehow the news didn’t surprise him. He loved the man but by God he was stupid, reckless, always taking dumb chances just for the thrill of it, he always knew he’d get himself killed, he just wasn’t sure when. But being prepared didn’t stop a sharp gasp from escaping his lips, it didn’t numb the stabbing pain that radiated across his chest.

“H-how?” It was quieter than he’d been aiming for, and gave off a worrying amount of emotion considering all his training, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to care. Death was a part of his job, but he’d never let himself get this close to someone before, and he was sure paying the price.

“We’re not entirely sure. I, for some reason, had thought it would be a good idea to send him undercover, he was going to be a way for a while, worming his way right into the hornet’s nest if you’d believe. One of those fucking assholes must have figured he was CIA. We lost contact with him six months in, got confirmation about three weeks back. Listen, I know-”

Owen slammed the receiver down with a force so great it cracked slightly. A few of his colleagues glanced up, but one glare was enough for them to turn back to their paperwork. Without really thinking about it he stood up and walked out. There were a million places he could have gone, but he instinctively walked towards his flat, as much as he despised the stereotype, he really needed a cup of tea right now.

He didn’t want to believe it, but he couldn’t stop the thought from consuming him: he’d never checked. He’d killed four people on that mission and he’d never once done any fucking checks. But he wasn’t stupid, he would’ve recognised Curt anywhere. He could still hear his voice now, could still picture the way his face lit up with a mixture of elation and disdain anytime Cynthia allowed them to work a case together. He would’ve known if he’d been there, he would’ve known if he’d shot him.  
His mug slipped through his fingers, shattering into a hundred tiny shards on his floor, he didn’t bother to clean it up. Somehow a broken mug was the least of his concerns. The Russians were going to get into space, that’s why they’d sent him over there in the first place. There was only one other country with enough of an investment in this to also send a man over. It had been dark in that room. His shots had been precise. Lab benches don’t provide all that much cover. 

The realisation washed over him like a ten foot wave. He’d walked away from that shoot out as soon as he’d gotten what he needed, he never checked to see who exactly it was he’d murdered. He’d left the man he loved on the floor of some Russian facility, bleeding, dying. And he’d just walked away. What kind of fucking person was he? What kind of person left people to die without even knowing their name? If he’d just looked he could have saved him, one glance was all it would have taken and he would have known. Curt  
shouldn’t have died. 

It only took him a few weeks to go completely off the grid. A few old contacts helped him forge this new identity, but a bullet in the back of the head tends to keep people from spilling too much information. He didn’t know what he was doing, he wasn’t sure he cared. That anger he’d been pushing away for so long finally managed to take a hold of him, and he wasn’t sure it was ever going to let go, he certainly wasn’t going to carry on fighting it, he’d spent enough time doing that. After all, he deserved to live like this, and everyone else deserved what they had coming. The world had been playing some sick joke on him for years, he wasn’t going to be a pawn anymore. Owen was angry, Owen was brutal, Owen was deadly.


End file.
